


Whatever Happened to Hawke?

by PinkAfroPuffs



Series: Tales of the Champion [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: After Inquisition is over, Gen, Hawke hates Cullen a lot, Multi, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 18:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16500575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: The Champion has a few gripes about how the final battle was told. A few hundred, it seems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my many FenHawke/Hawke fics to come. I'm seriously invested in Talia Hawke and her adventures. I hope you all enjoy it!

It was supposed to be nighttime when everything went down; once the mages had nowhere to go, the Chantry exploded, and some fuck-all statues came to life, the moons of Thedas were to be hung high in the sky, the ground painted with the blood of poor Templars who didn’t realize the truth soon enough, men and women who may have meant well but were cut down by Hawke.

In reality, it was noon.

There certainly was a Chantry explosion, yes, and Anders had done it (without much of a mention to Hawke, who, at this point in her life, realized it might not be such a bad idea, considering time and place and might even have said “sure, why not!”, but instead had to deal with inevitably losing trust in one of her weirdo friends who thought secrecy was how you _did_ friendship), but amidst the fire and broken paths, between the Grey Wardens and Bethany showing up, Kirkwall was sort of just...normal.

Sort of.

The Hanged Man was still full, after all. After ordering her third cup of swill, Hawke eyed the screaming woman running out of the door and noted that the poor thing must not have been drunk enough to just fall asleep on the grimy floor, like everyone else.

“Sooo...are we….going to do something?” Merrill asked, her huge eyes flickering to the panicked tavern patrons- and the extremely mellow ones.

“Eventually. I always have to clean it up eventually,” Hawke mourned, finishing off her cup. “Oh, Andraste’s ass, that was disgusting! We should start going somewhere else.”

“I take it you aren’t drunk enough to appreciate it,” Fenris crossed his arms a bit but his eyes were also on the door. “Maybe you should order some more. I can think of nothing better for you to do with your time.”

“I should,” she agreed, nodding and she pulled at the puff of her silver ponytail. It was easier to ignore the sarcastic edge to Fenris’ voice when she was tipsy. “You’re a genius, honey. I need to order more before I set my eyes on this pig’s hole of a city.”

“Hawke,” Varric sighed, “we’re not doing this.”

The cup tapped against the wooden counter with a soft thud, the glitter and shuffle of her armor moving when her fingers did before she turned to Varric, her dark brown eyes trained on him. “I say we are. Let the whole damn thing burn.”

“You know that won’t solve anything,” he insisted. “I say, we put out a few fires, you know...save a couple of kittens from houses...and make a run for it. What’s the harm?”  
Her eyebrows furrowed. There were plenty of things she could not say; how coming to Kirkwall without her brother had already been enough for her, before it took Bethany and her mother along with him; how it branded her no more than a murderer, a dimwit, complacent in the grander scheme; Petrice, the Grand Cleric’s dismissal of all of the city’s problems...and now this. She thought of the alienages, and where her own father had come from; she thought of her mother again, and how easy it would have been to not have found her at all. To have lost her without burying her to set her soul at peace.

She’d lost everything.

“Anders,” she said, though she didn’t dare look up at him, “do you think these people are worth saving?”

All attention turned to the quiet mage, sitting on a lone stool in the tavern, far away from the actual party; under the duration for two hours, his skin had gone pallid, his complexion haggard, and his disposition that of a dying man. He was truly at his wit’s end- and though Hawke still found herself mad at him for lying to her, she found the compassion to reach out to him. He was still a friend. He would still fight with them.

“I…” His words sounded frigid, even to his own ears, and much like Hawke, he didn’t look up when he spoke. Careful not to say anything too loudly, he said, “I think there are still people worth saving here. Especially the mages. But there are women, and children- families- who doesn’t deserve to get lost in the chaos.”

The rest of the party seemed to relax. He was on their side. Though none of them truly agreed with his methods, maybe there would be room for some reconciliation- between those who’d liked him to begin with, at least.

“I see.” She said, and then she put both of her hands on the table and stood. “Then I guess we have to go.”

“Where are we going?” Isabela, wearing a Really Big Hat that she had most assuredly been given by Hawke, was carrying a very big, very nice bottle of wine with a very old date on it when she arrived, leaning on the counter in a fashionably-late manner. “I thought we were staying for the party.”

“Rivaini, the town’s up in flames,” started Varric.

“Perfect for a party!” She insisted. “I’ve even got the brandy!”

This was when Aveline arrived, hair a mess, blood on her face, a bit irritated. Hawke had assumed that it would happen eventually, seeing as the city was up in flames and The Neighborhood Scapegoat (Hawke) was sitting in the tavern drinking her sorrows away. With the air of a mother who’d caught her children misbehaving, she said, “Is this where you lot have been?”

Nobody said anything. Hawke could only raise her eyebrows at her. She loved Aveline to death, but expecting her to clean up every mess that came to Kirkwall was asking too much of her. Especially when she didn’t get paid for it regularly, like Aveline did.

“The city’s on fire and you’re…” She clearly couldn’t find the words she was looking for. “...drinking in the daytime?!”

“Yes,” said Hawke. “I find booze tastes best in the midst of the end of the world. Calming on the nerves, you know.”

“And I’m just supposed to clean up this city by myself?” She pushed the loose strands of hair back and began re-tying her ponytail.

“You are the Guard-Captain,” Hawke ventured, and Varric and Isabela hi-fived behind her.

This obviously did not please Aveline (which was no surprise, as most things didn’t) and with a sigh, she straightened her shoulders and tried again. “Hawke-”

“I know,” Hawke waved her hand, walking across the room. “I’ve already been convinced to help out. I’m just taking my time.”

“If you take any more, the whole place could be up in flames-”

“Don’t rush me or I won’t do it at all,” she grabbed her longsword and strapped it onto her back. “Just go. Get going. I’ll be out in a minute.” Hawke rotated her shoulder a bit, sure to get all of the stress out of her shoulders before tightening her gauntlets.

All filtered out save her beau; for one reason or another, Fenris was still standing there, his arms crossed as he watched her thoughtfully. He didn’t say a word at first, just waited.

“What?” She shifted, hoping he couldn’t see through her this time, like he always did.

“You asked the mage,” he said, “because you wanted to go.”

Hawke didn’t say anything. She gave him a little wave of her hand, as you do, and turned her head. “What? Pffft. Don’t…” She trailed her fingers up her the edges of her hair and up to where her scrunchie met her hand. “....don’t….look through me like that.”

“Hawke,” he sort of smiled, “If you must do this, I won’t stop you. Though I don’t always like your….methods…” (She tried not to look sheepish at this) “I will remain at your side. Always.” He did not have to add that it would be pointless to try to stop her, anyway; they both knew how bullheaded she could be, and it was clear in his tone.

Hearing him say that- even thought it was the third time, or the fourth time, or maybe the eightieth- made her chest feel all fuzzy and she started pulling at the coils in her afro puff again. “Well, if you say it that way,” she coughed, “how about a kiss for the road? Since we’re going through with this, after all.”

It was good that they were alone. It made the moment that much more special; even though she knew he spoiled her (despite what he said) a kiss on the edge of the world felt so spectacular that she said, “Mm, now I don’t want to go back out there.”

“And I thought you were a woman of your word,” he teased.

“Oh…! Fine!” She gently nudged him, stretching her arms out before she cracked her knuckles. “How hard could it be, anyway?”


	2. Oh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She said the words.

It was nigh impossible.

In hindsight, someone like Hawke should have known better to have asked “how hard can it be”, as all powers in Thedas would assure that it was much more astronomically difficult, so she’d honestly just set herself up for the biggest jinx in all of history.

“Oh, poopy,” was all she said, when she realized that the only reasonable course of action was to skip town, assume a new name, and create a new life with Fenris and whoever else was available to give up hopes of avoiding this entire catastrophe (which was to say, Anders, Isabela and maybe Varric. Merrill might need some cajoling, though, and Aveline had just gotten married to what’s-his-name, so she was a hard no). As she spoke, a flaming wooden column crashed beside her, directly setting fire to the Hanged Man, which meant that entry to that place was no longer possible.

“Well,” said Varric, “at least now we know you’re not going back in there.”

“My stuff!” Isabela cried, covering her face with one hand. “I had so many hats in there…Hawke, this is your fault. I bet the Maker is after you for something or other.”

“If this was my fault, you all would’ve been dead by association at least six years ago,” she joked, shaking her head at the wreckage. Maker’s breath, that _certainly_ put an end to her day drinking.

“If you’re all done dwaddling, I have a whole team of soldiers that need your help,” shouted Aveline, pointing to the most central part of Kirkwall.

Hawke’s shoulders heaved up and down. “I don’t know, Aveline. If you trained them, they should be fine for a few more seconds.” By seconds she meant anywhere between twenty minutes and an hour, and it was clear in her march towards the alienage without even a word. Merrill happily followed suit.

“The alienage?” Now she seemed exasperated, but Hawke ignored it; more than anything, Aveline talked tough about helping people but never stepped off of her pedestal of the icky things, like going against what social norms wanted of you. It was much easier for Hawke, who was elf-blooded, to care about elves- and she thought, after having Fenris and Merrill for friends (though the former didn’t see himself as an elf as much as a fugitive) that Aveline should have shared the sentiment. Instead, she finished with,

“Hawke, we have more important-”

“The elves are just as important as your soldiers,” Hawke answered. “Or do we have to revisit the whole Arishok situation?”

The Arishok Situation was a string of Very Bad events that led up to Hawke taking on the Arishok- a Qunari- in one-on-one combat. The whole thing could have easily been resolved any other way (as many knew, Hawke didn’t blame the elves that were “abducted” into the Qun, who knew that Kirkwall- and by proxy, Ferelden- was not kind to elves, and as second class citizens, they were violated at worst and ignored at best) but in the end, all she reminded Aveline of the event was, “Absolute fucking disorder. Your worst nightmare, right?”

Aveline could only throw her arms up and comply. It was clear she was wondering how they’d been friends for this long- though everyone knew it was Hawke’s silver tongue. She thanked the Maker every day for it, though sometimes she wished she’d gotten a cooler gift, like turning into a dragon or something.

It took less than an hour to get every survivor out of the alienage, and when they were finished, Hawke wiped her brow. “Well! I think that’s enough for today! Time to go home-”

It was the next explosion that caused her to stop, the entire party momentarily stunned by the shaking and everything going to shit in a slightly faster fashion than normal. “Right. Well. I think it’s time to skip town.”

The general consensus seemed in favor of this, despite Aveline’s protests, so the party moved to the main gates. _This_ was where the _actual_ chaos cited in the book insured. Not before.

It was exactly one-thirty in the afternoon when Hawke realized that if the templars were going bat shit crazy, the mages were in danger, and called the whole thing off. It was one-forty-five when she sprinted to the Circle to find Orsino on the ground, and Meredith standing over him.There was not much to interpret apart from the reddish-glow on Meredith’s sword and the screams about something in consequential- the words “defy me” and “breathed your last” were certainly scattered here and there, but Hawke didn’t hear them. She’d already rammed her entire body into Meredith and thrown her off balance.

The sword, which suspiciously looked like it was made of red lyrium, clattered to the ground. Vaguely, she remembered Merrill and Anders helping Orsino up from the ground, and checking him for wounds; at the very forefront of her mind were the obscenities hot on her tongue, loud as her own father had been the first time she’d stolen something back in Lothering when she was four winters old.

“You _pigheaded_ , awful piece of templar shit!” The term “seeing red” had never really taken on a meaning until now, especially in the most literal sense (seeing as Meredith’s whole person was glowing that ugly red color) and when she grabbed the Knight Commander by her armor, she was almost sure she’d be seeing black and blue on Meredith soon enough. “You took this as a chance to go terrorize the mages instead of protecting your city? I knew you weren’t the sharpest knife in the bunch but you sure are the biggest tool.”

Subtly, Isabela and Varric hi-fived at that one, too.

“The mages destroyed the Chantry! The holy mother was in there-”

“I don’t give a damn if Andraste _herself_ was in there,” she seethed, “there are people dying in the chaos and if you don’t do some crowd control, Maker, I might-”

“Talking to her will do no good,” Anders reminded her gently. “Even if the lyrium hadn’t been eating at her brain by now.”

Right. The lyrium. She stole a glance at the sword, wondering how someone would have fashioned a whole hunk of cursed rock into a sword- much less held it for more than a few moments; she suddenly remembered Bartrand, and stole a glance at Varric. He didn’t respond. “Let’s….get them out of here.”


	3. Okay, okay, here's the fun part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You thought I forgot about the statues! Amateurs! I never forget a near-death experience!

The statues _did_ come to life, but it was around three-thirty. Hawke knew this because it was so fucking hot that the copper was sweating, which could only happen when it was still early enough for the sun to be bright in the sky, but not high enough to be noon. Also, humid, because her puff was getting frizzy. Again.

There were no real words for those copper statues. Really, though Hawke wished she could have pinpointed who had set them off, or for what purpose, she’d say so. But she couldn’t. And she didn’t want to know.

“Well, crew, it was nice knowing you!” Varric waved. “It’s too bad about all my stuff. You were going to inherit everything, Hawke.”

“Aww,” Hawke cooed. “You care that much about me?”

“I mean, after you drank that whole keg and won me eighty-six gold, I didn’t have much of a choice!” He joked, though Hawke could see his eyes scrambling a bit, probably wondering if his arrows could actually pierce the copper or if they would just bounce off, kill them all, and that would be the end of that.

She supposed that she could just hit the damned things really hard in the joint parts; her sword might not be sharp afterwards, but it would make for a good, two-handed blunt instrument, and she was good at making use of blunt instruments. So, after a few moments of deliberation, she took that sword out.

Then she swung.

It went on like that what felt like hours, metal clanging against metal, but the copper security measures were obviously defeatable; at some point they just stopped working, bursting at their joints under the heat and the pressure from their weapons, freezing first in place and then falling to pieces. It was astounding. Almost too easy.

The other Templars seemed to catch up with the commotion, furious at Hawke for whatever they thought she’d done, the foremost member- one Cullen Rutherford, of whom she had a bit of a reputation with- and he stopped them on their way out of town. “Stand down! This is not a drill. Maker, what have you done? The Knight Commander hasn’t said an intelligent word since-”

“Since how long ago, Cullen?” Hawke sighed. “Months? Years?” Her puff was not as secure as it had been before, little ringlets of her fluffy, afro-textured hair poking out here and there. Annoyed, she pulled off the band around the middle and fluffed her white fluff out with her hands. Now she had less of a headache, at least. “The red lyrium wasn’t meant to be used. It drives people mad, you know.”

The Knight-Captain seemed taken aback at this, though for a moment, the spark of doubt twinkled in his eyes. “The...what?” He was obviously confused. Men like him often were, Hawke supposed. “Where is Meredith?”

“Last I saw, she was in the mage’s tower, trying to attack Orsino,” Hawke shrugged, waving her sword around. “The statues attacked and now I’m basically done with this bullshit. Does that suffice?”

His brow furrowed. “The statues can’t move on their own. They have to be activated.”

“...okay?” She crossed her arms across her chest. “By what?”

It is here, dear friends, that we lose track of Hawke. No one can confirm if there was a scuffle, or a reveal-

_“Hawke. Please finish the story.”_

* * *

Talia lowered her arms, momentarily stunned into silence. “Why? Isn’t it better to leave it at a cliffhanger?”

The warmth of the hearth tickled against her face from her armchair, her one glove making a soft clack against her knee when she lowered it. There were at least six pairs of eyes on her now, one of which was her husband’s; with a small child on his knee, his eyebrows were set in the way they did when he was concentrating. The smile pulling at the corner of Fenris’ mouth made him look all the more charming in the light of the fire; serene and no longer on the run, he took to fatherhood like a fish to water, and children often seemed to take to him almost immediately. “The little one is getting tired.”

She pouted very slightly. It was tough to have enough fun with these stories and make sure their daughter would remember them; she supposed, at points, that she would simply have to retell them, like her father had.

“Come on, Hawke,” Varric was squished in the other armchair with Isabela sitting on the arm, a glass of wine in her hands. “Finish it already! We aren’t getting any younger!”

“You’re not? Well, I am,” countered Isabela, and she took another swig of the wine.

There were more children than she could keep track of; the number of heads in the room had to have reached a dozen, what with the former Inquisitor and his beau coming along for the party, and it was getting late. Still, she felt exhausted to have her story stopped in “the middle” (as she liked to say, though it was the end and it was simply not going as well as she wanted it to) and have to retell it from there.

“Alright, alright,” she waved her hands. “Fenris, hand me the baby.”

He complied, though it was clear that he rather enjoyed having her on his lap, despite how difficult she could be. She was sure he was going to spoil that child to bits.

Once she had the baby on her lap, she said, “So, the thing is, Meredith escaped the tower, because _someone_ didn’t tie her up properly,” this was a very pointed jab at a certain mage on the floor, playing with one of the cats in the house, and though he didn’t look up at first, he did defend himself.

“You wanted me to be more careful with a templar? Did you forget who I am! I was stuck with either running off or being done with it all.”

“But you’d already blown up the chantry, so no more murder,” Hawke finished (ironically, as Anders said something similar). “Right, right, anyway.”

* * *

  
_“Cullen, the man I punched in the face for threatening my sister and still had the scar on his lip, actually said something useful, for once.”_

“Meredith wasn’t at the tower. We were just there. If anything, she would be here, at the Gallows,” Cullen explained. “She was...disturbed about something. She kept mentioning a ‘Tranquil Solution’-”

(Audibly, Anders gasped. Obviously the memory had brought up very real feelings. Bethany, who hadn’t been there at the time and only encountered the latter part of his battle, could only pat him on the shoulder. Merrill, who’d stopped by late, quickly offered to brew them all a cup of tea.)

“No!” It had been Anders who’d said so, moving forward as though he’d finally found his voice again. “But it was already ruled as inhumane! How could she still…!”

“Apparently, she got permission to invoke it against the Circle mages behind our backs,” added Cullen. “But the Chantry-”

“The Chantry was-” Anders started, but Hawke held out her arm in front of him.

“The Chantry was my doing.” She could feel Fenris’ eyes on her, but he kept his mouth shut, assessing her, as you do when your lover acts a fool for friendship.  
Merrill, who was not known to abide lying to people on purpose, started to say something like, “But I thought-” but was quickly hushed by the soft, “Shh, Kitten,” in the back.

Cullen (who knew by now not to ignore or question Hawke too much) only cleared his throat. “Fine. Then the mages are absolved of any wrongdoing for now,” he said this very carefully, like he could feel Hawke coiled to sock him in the mouth to give him another scar. “But that still doesn’t fix this...mess.” He gestured very broadly, trying not to point directly at the scapegoat herself.

“Tell you what,” Hawke started, “you go looking for Meredith, and I skip town. You publicize that the 'Evil is Defeated' and we go about our lives? Does that sound good, Cully-wully?”

His lip twitched at this. “No, it does not! I’ve half a mind to….to…!”

Hawke leaned forward. She dwarfed him when she did that, as she was six feet tall to his 5’8, and she loved every moment of being an intimidating nightmare to the templar. “To. What?”

He was obviously trying to hold his ground; normally Hawke wouldn’t try to undermine him in front of so many other people, because that was cruel, and she was not a cruel woman! “Serah Hawke, this is not the time to….to _bargain_. We are in crisis.”

“And I’ve quelled most of it,” she waved her hand. “My subordinates and I have already cleaned up the mess you should’ve already taken a mop to. Or are the Templars no good at anything other than killing innocent mages?”

Anders very much wanted someone to hi-five with, and it showed in his souring expression. It was clear he was not sure if he should try to do so with Hawke, or just swallow the urge.

They argued a little bit after that, back and forth like a couple of bickering siblings (she tried very hard not to think of Carver), though it was cut short when Varric, who was by far better at observations than Hawke, stepped in the middle of them.

“...Chuckles….we’ve got company.”

She and Cullen looked up; near the top of the gates leading out of Kirkwall, with her lyrium sword somehow back in her possession, stood Meredith, her eyes flickering this way and that as she watched over their party.

“Maker, above, what is that?” Cullen was the first to consider retreat, the templars behind him moving back as he did, and Meredith started her speech:


	4. It's gotta be Blood Magic, right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, scary.  
> This is the final chapter, though. It's late. Too late for children, you know.

“BLOOD MAGIIIIIIIIC!!!” Talia tossed the baby up in the air and caught her. “WHOOOOOO!!!!!!”

The crowd laughed- with some concerned chuckles from someone who was obviously not in on the joke- and Fenris crossed his arms at her, though he smiled, as you do, when your wife makes a joke about how you all almost died.

“Really, she blamed everyone for blood magic. Told the templars, even Cully-wully,” she ticked her daughter’s belly, “that they were abominations and needed to be destroyed. The red lyrium rotted her brain, like Anders said.”

“So is this the fight with Meredith, then?” asked the Dalish Inquisitor, red eyes standing out against his white hair and vallaslin as he tilted his head at her. “I thought it just didn’t happen, since y’ skipped over it.”

“Oh, it definitely happened,” Talia sighed. “It was something. She just...wouldn’t go down! It was like fighting a bear or...dear, what are some other big things we’ve fought?”

“A dragon?” Fenris offered.

“Oh, no, that wasn’t like that. The dragon was way more fun, and way less fun, all at once,” she bounced the baby on her knee. “Aveline?”  
Aveline and Donnic were both leaning against the back of the sofa, clad in full armor. It was times like these that she understood how they got along so well; really, did either of them ever relax? “A bull?”

The Iron Bull only snorted. Hawke grinned a tiny bit, then shook her head. “Mmm. No, maybe bigger?”

“A griffon!” Offered Isabela.

“Those are extinct,” replied Merrill sadly, and most of the older attendants groaned. They’d all had this conversation before. “What? It’s true, isn’t it? I was upset when I found out, too, y’know.”

There was a bit of laughter after that, but then Hawke snapped her fingers.

“Ah! I know! Like a golem….”

* * *

  
_“...fighting hard and tirelessly for the wrong master.”_

  
The sword wouldn’t crack, or shatter upon first or even second clash; for it to be made of something so volatile, it was tough, and even tougher was Meredith. Despite losing her mind, her training and skills were still top notch; even with the Templar’s help, it was a difficult battle, and even magic couldn’t stop her for very long.

It wasn’t until the Grey Wardens showed up again that they got their edge. Though Anders had done his best before then as healer, he was wearing down fast; she was dishing out more damage than most of them could take, and even Fenris, who hardly complained unless the situation was dire (and she wished, often, that he would complain much more) could be heard asking for a potion or two.

“This isn’t working,” started Hawke. “We’d better retreat, or at least….try something else?”

“Just, buy some time,” Anders said. “The lyrium...it’s spreading. We can’t get too close, or-”

“Or?” Hawke shook her head at him, confused.

“I can hear it too, sister,” Bethany grabbed her arm. “Look.”

Lyrium crackled against Meredith’s arm and up her elbow; the sword, now fused to her being, moved more rigidly in battle, easier to dodge and fight against. Anders and Bethany were right; the red lyrium was consuming not only Meredith’s sanity, but her entire physical being. Even though nobody had much liked her before, the process was terrifying to watch- the icky, rocky lyrium crawled up her shoulder and the entire right side of her body before she began realizing exactly what she was doing. This, too, left her quite quickly, and suddenly her raving became a cry of grief.

“I tried to have sympathy! Maker knows, I've tried! But how can we allow them freedom when so many would use it to commit atrocities? They control minds, they become abominations, they began the Blight itself! And now Elthina. Oh, poor Elthina. I will avenge you, dear friend!"

Hawke later regretted not saying something snippy. At a later date, she thought very much that she would have liked to have words with Elthina long before her death, but Meredith’s speech made her feel as though even villains had feelings, so she said nothing. It burned deep in her gut, feelings that need to be shared, the impulse to just let Meredith have it- but the poor dear was already being swallowed up by red lyrium, so she let her talk. And before long, that lyrium really did eat her whole.

“Stay back!” In the end, it was Cullen who saw reason- though her own companions looked to her to confirm it, with a quick nod, they were all following his instructions. The pile of petrified rock that used to be the Knight-Commander lay still. For a long while, everyone was silent; after what felt like an eternity, one of the Templars moved, the shuffling of armor allowing everyone to release their collective breaths. “It’s over. Maker, she’s…”

Nobody said it. Hawke definitely wanted to. But she didn’t. “Well. I think that settles that. Since the city’s no longer in flames now-”

“Hold. A moment, Serah.”

She sort of tilted her head. Of course she’d be stopped. Again. “Yeesss?”

Someone from the back of the pack- a less-battered templar- unfurled a long piece of paper. “Serah Talia Hawke, you are under arrest for the following crimes-”

It suddenly became evident that Hawke could feel a migraine coming on, and she gingerly touched the cold, non-bloody part of her gauntlet to her forehead to help. “Oh, bother.”

“Wait, wait! Before you say anything, I have a deeply compelling argument,” Isabela said, arms spread wide.

Cullen held up a hand at the scribe, suddenly willing to entertain it. “And what, in Andraste’s name, is that?”

It was here that Isabela threw down a very thick smoke bomb, yelled, “Scatter!” and the party, sans Aveline and Varric, fled through the Kirkwall gates.

* * *

  
“Never to be seen again!” Talia cried, throwing her hands up. The baby clapped from her seat on her mother’s lap, then, cooing because she had the best seat in the house.

“You left out the part about the Seeker coming to threaten me about you,” Varric added, one fist under his chin, “or did you just think it was better not to add that?”

“I thought it was better for your story,” Hawke waved her hand. “Not mine. If I wanted to add anything, it would be about Fenris’ proposal-”

“ _You_ proposed,” Fenris cut in.

“-to me, proposing to you, same thing.” She shrugged, though she knew it wasn’t right (and Fenris sort of laughed at her, too). “But that’s a story for another time. Anyway, you all should either go home or find a room, because I’m not taking anyone home tonight! It’s time for me to set little Lyra to bed.”

There were a couple of boos from the audience, but Hawke stood anyway, holding the yawning babe in her arms. “You’re all a bunch of sods. Drinks are in the kitchen and if anyone’s staying for Wicked Grace, please do not give any cards to Barkemedies. He’s _absurdly_ good and we can’t go having Merrill losing her ring to the dog again!”

The excess guests filed out, Isabela, Merrill, Aveline, Anders, Bethany and Varric the only ones left- and, interestingly, the former Inquisitor, Mamoru Lavellan. Before she could ask if he would join in the game, he said, “I’ve somethin’ to ask you.”

She cast a glance at the group gathering in the middle of the den, Isabela and Anders moving the table into the center. “...will it take long?”

He shook his head, his fluffy mess of hair almost covering his eyes as he did. “I wanted to ask you if you might...be interested in joinin’ me on an...adventure of sorts.” He, too, cast a glance back into the living room, and then at The Iron Bull, who was waiting at the door, far enough to be polite, but close enough to eavesdrop.

Hawke was unsure of what to say at first, what with the baby on her hip. It would surely be nice to go on another adventure, but after losing her own father as a child, considering it now that she and Fenris were building an extended family of their own- especially after the Fade- she shook her head. “I...I’m going to say no. I think I’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime.”

The Inquisitor smiled at her, the lines under his eyes sad. “I understand.” With his right arm- his only arm- he rummaged through his pocket and gave her a piece of paper with a strange looking inscription on it. “Here. If you should ever want to reach me, or...change your mind.”

Tentatively, she took it, eyes lingering on the little marking before she stuffed it in her pocket. “I assume it’s a mage thing?”

“You can show it to Bethany and she’ll understand,” he said with a smile. “Be seein’ you, Hawke. I’d love to hear more of your stories sometime.”

She considered at first going after him to tell him yes, recklessly; whatever it was the Inquisitor might want her for had to be serious- he was that sort of person, after all.

But….

She cast a glance back at Fenris, who was joking with Varric about something inconsequential, and then at their child.

“ _Fenris will die, like everyone else in your life. They all tend to leave you, don’t they?_ ”

Lyra cooed at her again, tired but still whiny, her little green eyes darting out against her brown skin. Hawke held her close, pressing a kiss to her round cheeks as she rocked her. She took a deep breath through her nostrils and locked the door, her throat going dry.

“Hawke?”

They were all looking at her now. She must have been standing at the door too long, thinking too hard about something that didn’t matter anymore. Wicked Grace mattered. Fenris mattered. Lyra mattered.

Not...adventure.

She needed Fenris to not look so concerned about her, so she smiled. It was not worth it. It would never be worth it. “I’ll put the baby to bed, so save a spot for me,” she told them, and then she rushed upstairs without a word, hoping the little jog might help her difficulty breathing. Silly. She'd been known for throttling templars, friend to the mages and outcasts, six-foot and stronger than hell. She'd laughed in the faces of dragons, blood mages, and an age-old darkspawn. Why was she so shaken now, at images of her husband and child leaving her after one more reckless mistake, or disappearing for one reason or another?

She set Lyra in her crib and turned away, rummaging through her pocket for the recently deposited note.

‘If you change your mind.’

She wanted to. But she wouldn't. Couldn't. With hasty fingers, she shoved the note into the baby room's drawer, at the very bottom, and slammed it shut. There. She would forget all about it, and she and her friends, her husband and her child would be safe from her.

She would not lose them again.

Deliberate and calm, she blew out the light, and closed the door, silently patting herself on the back.


End file.
